Page 14 of Scrooge

I turn through the familiar paths that lead to my bench. The one where my father and I would often sit when I was younger while he took a break from his office. The one I come to when I need to think through my worries and get clarity. I have been here almost every week since my father died, and each time sitting on our seat together always helps me with whatever it is I am grappling with.

I come to the familiar clearing and balk. Someone is already sitting on the bench. I continue walking, getting closer, the light dim so it is hard to see, but the figure is small and female, her hair blowing in the breeze, her hands rubbing her arms due to the cold.

Regardless, I continue on. Once I sit down, she will move. I am not exactly giving off chatty vibes tonight. Not that I ever do.

“What are you doing on my seat?” I ask as I approach the woman, my words coming out with more bite than I intend.

As the woman looks up, I almost fall over. It is her. Her eyes widen in realization as well.

“Are you following me?” she asks, her brow crumpled. Looking around, she seems a little unsure before her eyes rest back on me.

“No. You are inmyseat,” I tell her again.

“Your seat? Arrogant much?” she huffs as she takes me in.

“It is my seat. Has my name on it.” I point to the small, engraved plaque adorning the backrest.

“This seat is owned by Alexander and Jerry.” She says mine and my father’s names out loud, and I shiver.

“Jerrywas my father.” I emphasize his name and swallow down the heartache that builds when I think about him. Leaning back, I look up as I exhale a heavy breath. The view of the city skyline is front and center, my father's office building right in front of me. Or rather, my office building now. One of the biggest in the city. “He passed away almost a year ago…” I tell her, not sure why I am even talking to her. When I bring my attention back to her, her expression softens. Cheeks pink from the cool weather, her lips pout a little, small tufts of smoke coming out from her warm breath.

“I'm sorry,” she says sincerely, and while many people have said that to me since he passed, none have actually said it with any genuine feeling.

“Thank you” I say, clearing my throat as I look back up at my building. Moving to sit next to her, we sit in silence for a while. I notice her gazing out at the park, not that you can see much as it is covered in darkness.

“What are you doing out here so late at night?” I ask, because now that I think about it, it is probably not entirely safe for a female to be wandering alone at night in Central Park.

“Sitting in your seat, apparently,” she murmurs, smirking to herself.

“It's a bit dangerous, isn't it?” I comment, just as I hear a noise not too far away.

“Deloris is looking out for me.” She nods toward a woman in the distance, face deep in a garbage can, pulling out all manner of things.

“Deloris?” I frown, watching with interest.

“Yeah. She wasn’t on the train today, so I came looking for her,” she says, and my frown deepens.

“Looking for her? Is she a friend of yours?” I ask tentatively. The homelessness in this city is growing and is such a black mark on our streets. My eyes narrow, looking at the woman scouring through the garbage can. It is filthy and so is she.

“Yes. I have known her for years. She is homeless, probably cold and hungry, too, tonight. I wanted to make sure she is okay before I leave the city.”

I look between her and the woman again, wondering what the hell kind of friends she has.

“Doesn’t she have a shelter to go to or something?” I ask.

“She doesn’t like shelters.” When I turn toward her, her face is forward, watching the woman carefully. Not unlike a mother in a playground. Giving her child just enough distance to feel independent, but ready to step in at a moment's notice.

“She’s homeless. Surely, they are better than nothing?” I’m gobsmacked as to why anyone would refuse free accommodation. It is absurd that a woman would prefer to sleep in a park on such a cold night rather than go to a shelter.

“Not really. Not for women.” She turns to me, her face coated in the light from the lamp nearby, giving her a soft glow that makes her look angelic. Pulling up her collar, she’s obviously cold, and my chest tightens, not liking that one bit. “What are you doing here tonight anyway?”

“Sitting on my seat,” I say simply, and she huffs a laugh, making my lips quirk. The movement feels weird. I haven’t smiled so easily in a long time. My fake grin comes out regularly when needed, but it is almost like my lips forget how to move on their own. Until now.

“So you’re Alexander Jackson, right? Jackson Enterprises?” she asks, and I nod. I wondered if she knew. Most people do, although I wasn’t sure about her.

“That’s our office over there. That big building,” I tell her, feeling proud as I point it out.

“The tall one? With the big, pointy thing at the top?” she asks, and I look back at her.

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